the hills

day 4 of a routine run in vacant Otura, ghost town burbs.

in Otura, there is an alarmingly new golf course called
Santa Clara Golf Club,
so very near the house i am living. sprawling is what jumps off my tongue.
lots of air. makes me dizzy to lift my arms. eerily quiet.
those also want to jump.

on my most recent runs i have surprised myself by literally running through a fear of mine:
murderers.

i, maybe unwisely, chose to run, solo, up a new paved street...
and when i say street, i refer to 90/94 completely void of a kitten whisper.
emp-ty.
sprawling, remember?
the hill was steep. real f*ing steep. so much that when i thought i had reached blue heaven,
i still had yet to sift through the stratus.

i pause to take a breath, my body in full tilt, no human to be spotted for kilometers...
and, now, i freak. i flip (just a bit).
oh, man, my mom´s gonna kill me. i shouldn´t be this far away.
i should turn back, i should run faster, i should. . .

what was that. . . ?

i´m a city girl to the core. i know this about myself now. i take a look over my shoulder every 30-45 seconds, i am meticulous in checking the zippers on my purse, my wallet, my pockets, my pants, i can dissolve into the jostle on a bus or train or speeding metro, hail a taxi, f*ckin give the bird to anyone no matter age or respect for any human soul. bring it.

but in the wild. . .

god save my little broken body.

the wild. . . i lost it.
my instinct turned me restless.
i was cursing myself for watching The Hills Have Eyes,
upon being soullessly abandoned on my run.
dammit, sh*t, they are watching me. sh*t. i don´t have to feel that they are watching me, because they are actually watching me right now. dammit, they´ve been watching me this whole f*cking run! i set myself up! stupid! oh, man, my mom´s gonna kill me!

my red blood surges through the hair in my ears, my antennae go erect,
and i gotta get the f*ck off this hill,
down and up the next huge hill, and around that grand bend in the highway
and f*ckin book it.
i´m gonna die out here...they are coming.
is that a blood splattered chainsaw whine, or a used John Deere?
chainsaw, i bet.

all i can think and feel is ache, and all i see are mirages of tattered, dusty,
men-like bodies
dragging,
what is that,
a rusted Shepperd's crook?

a f*ing Shepperd crook thingý?!

too much imagination, too much quiet, too much Tarintino for one dry afternoon.
so i Gump it.
i run.
like Hell is heavy on my heels. like my curiosity has dismembered my cat.
and sun dried it´s skin on a public lamppost.

i get a bit terrified when situations allow me to dwell, and daydream...
i am my own worst nightmare and author of my bloody memoir.
don´t answer the door when it´s a creepy knock,
don´t go upstairs you sh*ting idiota!
don´t get in that car because it´s possessed and it´s going to kill you next!
(i watched Christine not long before i came to spain...thanks, bert.)

don´t worry, mom. i stick to where i can still hear a dog bark on my runs.
and before i reached my gate, i thanked myself for never giving in to peer pressure
for the sanity of a European travelers soul...
i have never rented the Hostel movies.

namaste, and "i´ll be right baaaaack!"